


The Winter Viper

by nickahontas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Revenge, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-05 01:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15853824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickahontas/pseuds/nickahontas
Summary: Sansa is stranded at the Red Keep when she receives her Mark of a red viper.ON AN INDEFINITE HIATUS.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bequeathed from Pale Estates](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12789168) by [Author376](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Author376/pseuds/Author376). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm writing a different, much darker GoT fic but I kept getting inspired by this ship. I decided to start a different story instead of forcing it in. The other fic is more plot centric with a bit of romance but this is without a doubt a love story. It will have a happy ending! (Or at least as happy as you can get in Westeros.)
> 
> A few things have changed from canon:  
> -Tyrion and Sansa are betrothed but not married. This will be addressed in the fic.  
> -Sansa is aged up a bit.  
> -Mix of show and book canon. 
> 
> This is less 'realistic' and more fan-service (or author-service, I guess), especially with the plot and revenge, so keep that in mind. Feel free to send me warm or cold fuzzies either way, though. The whole mark thing is definitely inspired by 'Bequeathed from Pale Estates'. It's a great fic, check it out

Sansa woke to damp sheets and an ache radiating through her lower back. She hadn’t slept well in a year, not since Lady was killed, but the familiar exhaustion weighed heavier this morning.Her arm itched too. Sleepily, she stretched and sat up. Her heart stopped when she threw back her covers. 

There wasn’t a lot of blood, but there was enough. A dark red spot that had damned her. She’d hoped against all likelihood that she wouldn’t get her moonblood. Some women claimed that hard stress on the body could make it come late or even stop it altogether if it had already happened. She knew, of course, that her body was changing too. Her dresses were too short and too tight around her chest. Even her smallclothes were stretched over her widening hips. There was no way they would fit with a pad for her monthly time. 

None of that mattered. All that mattered was hiding it. 

She tossed the duvet onto the floor and balled the sheets into an angry mess. The naked mattress had a small, round stain too. There was no hiding that. She looked around the room for inspiration, her lips pressing into a thin line when she saw the small dagger. It was a dull thing meant for a lady’s simple uses. It would have to do. 

And so Shae entered to find Sansa stabbing and ripping at her mattress with wild eyes. 

“My lady! What are you doing? This is completely normal-“

“Joffrey,” Sansa breathed. 

The handmaiden’s face lost all color. She set aside the breakfast tray and ran to stand across from her lady. “We’ll flip it, come on-“

A gasp sounded from the hall. Alyson, the other maid, twirled away and ran for the Queen. Shae took off without a second thought. Sansa cried with dismay and tried to lift the bed. She pushed and pushed until her nails hurt. She was weak. She didn’t eat or sleep anymore. Her body couldn’t handle the weight. With a sob, she collapsed onto the stone floor, leaning her head against the wooden bed frame. 

She brainstormed, scratching at her cut wrist...but no, she hadn’t injured herself. 

No. No. No. 

She stopped the sleeve of her nightgown back and had to bite back a scream. 

Marks were revered, coveted. When the youngest of a pair reached adulthood, a Mark burned onto their wrists. They generally took on the look of a birthmark or bruise in the shape of a house sigil. The sigil, however, only referred to the lands that the elder of the two lived in. It was customary, and usually with great ceremony, that the family traveled to unite the soulmates. Commoners were raised to the station of their new husband or wife. Only one in a thousand had a soul mate and rarer still were they united. The poor couldn’t afford to travel long distances or sometimes even recognize sigils from a faraway land. 

Sometimes, if a Mate had a personal sigil, that would appear instead. It was known to take up something symbolic too. Shiera Seastar was rumored to have a birthmark shaped like a raven for her brother the Bloodraven. Sansa’s Mark was as red as a welt from the Kingsguard, swollen just the slightest bit above the skin. The color, she guessed, could have been a coincidence. Sansa Stark was not a fool anymore. She took a ragged breath and traced the red viper on her wrist. It was poised to strike and its tail was wrapped around a spear. There were no details, but it was a fearsome thing. 

_Does he have a wolf?_ She wondered. _Or a stag or a lion or a crown? Did he have Lady, his skin darkening and lightening with the pattern of her face?_

It was no matter. She would never meet the Red Viper of Dorne. The Lannisters had taken much from her, but they would not take this. 

Sansa reached for an embroidered shawl that one of the maidens had draped across the bed frame decoratively. She balled it into her mouth, biting down to test it. Then, with a small prayer, she placed the poker into the fire. She let it rest as long as she dared. Any longer and someone might find her or she would lose her courage. 

She bit down on the shawl and pressed the poker flat against her wrist. 

Pain seared up her arm. She screamed, the sound muffled by the fabric. The smell was the worst. It was a haunting scent that she knew she would never forget. Still, she rolled the poker over. The singed skin hissed and ripped and bubbled. Her stomach lurched and she choked on the shawl. 

One more roll, she told herself. 

No sooner than she did it, the world spun and an ugly, scarred face screamed down at her. 

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!” Clegane shouted. “HAVE YOU GONE MAD?!”

She couldn’t think to answer. Her head was muddled by the pain. It hurt so bad and gods did it reek. His big hand ripped the fabric out of her mouth. Sansa gasped, her back coming off the floor.

“FUCKING STUPID!” He was snarling.

He was afraid. His eyes were wide and kept glancing to the poker that he’d thrown clear across her chamber. Tiredly, she lifted her hand to the scars on his face. 

“Sorry,” she said. She was crying. She hadn’t realized she was crying. 

He cringed and pulled back from her caress. Gently, he pulled her to her feet. She was dizzy and sick and in pain, but she was glad. She smiled down at her mottled, bleeding wrist. The Queen couldn’t take him from her. He would be safe. From this, anyway.

“Bloody mad. Mad! Come on, girl. I’ve got to take you to the queen.”

She drug her feet after him, the tears flowing for a better reason. 

\-------

The Queen was livid. She gave a little speech in between insults and screeches. Sansa almost fainted when Cersei pulled on her burnt arm. 

“What was it you foul thing?” She demanded. Her pretty lips were pulled back over her teeth and her eyes were wild. Sansa realized the Queen wasn’t just hateful and evil, she was mad. Joffrey’s insanity might not have come from the incest at all, just his mother. 

“What. Was it.” She ground out. 

“I don’t know, Your Grace.”

“You don’t know!” Sansa thought she was going to hit her. She blanched, but experience had her steeling herself for the blow. “You don’t know!“

Cersei began pacing and muttering. Sansa occupied herself by massaging her arm just below the elbow. It helped a bit, but not much. 

“We could say it’s Clegane, but it would have been a burnt dog, not just a burn.”

Sansa was surprised to find that she wouldn’t have minded the Hound. He was hateful and wretched but he was never cruel. 

“No. We’ll just have to hide it.”

And hide it, they did. All of her gowns were modified to have tight sleeves and Lord Baelish brought over a paste to cover it whenever necessary. Sansa used the extra fabric from the long sleeves to let out her dresses as much as she could. Since her lessons had stopped when her father died, she snuck off to read books about Dorne and the Martells whenever she could. She got books on other houses and lands to throw off the spies that were surely watching. 

Two years passed. It felt like ten. The Red Viper became her savior of sorts. When the beatings and the humiliation became unbearable, she imagined what he was doing. She escaped into a story she told herself. She imagined him with an alchemy set in the Citadel, training sellswords in the East, or sailing across the seas with his own ship. His daughters became hers. He taught them to read and fight. They had golden skin and auburn hair. She would have liked to have so many daughters. 

Her own life went on. She was betrothed. Her family died. The Lannisters won the war. She grew thinner by the hour. Her only source of solace was the burn on her wrist. Her soulmate was out there, wild and free and laughing across the sand.

Only a handful knew. Her husband, Shae, the Queen, and the Hound. They never told Joffrey, not even when he set her aside. It was the only kindness she would ever see in the Capital. 

Sansa was hiding behind a forgotten statue of Baelor the Blessed when she heard that Dorne was coming to the Royal Wedding. It took every bit of iron in her to calm her stomach. 

* * *

 

Margaery was yapping away about her final dress fitting. Sansa and one of the Tyrell cousins were on each of Margery’s arm as the three girls strolled through the gardens. They would be sectioned off soon for the wedding preparations. Margaery wanted to take advantage of the attention she could get between the hedges and fountains. Sansa wanted nothing more than to excuse her self to lie against the heart tree in the godswood. 

“....as Sansa’s,” the future queen was saying. 

She had absolutely no idea what she was speaking of. 

“You are too kind, my lady,” she chirped obediently. 

Like a little bird, she thought to herself. She hoped Sandor Clegane was well, wherever he might be. 

“Nonsense! The embroidery, the detail! It was the finest dress I’ve ever seen. And Margaery, please, Sansa.”

“The Queen has excellent taste, Margaery,” Sansa said.

“That is something I have to disagree with,” a sultry voice added. It was deep and taunting with an accent that was lyrical. 

Her heart leaped into her throat. Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne bowed in greeting to the ladies. He was incredibly handsome. Everything about him screamed warmth and mischief. His skin was golden and his eyes were dark enough to be black without being dull. She’d never seen anything like it. His nose was hooked, but regal and his hair was greying at the temples. It only made him more attractive. Despite his allure, everything about him seemed dangerous. Though perhaps that was his allure. How could someone with such wild refinement be her equal? He seemed better suited for someone like Arya. 

“...Ellaria Sand,” he was saying. 

Sansa’s cheeks burned as she realized she’d been ogling the poor man. She and the other ladies curtsied to the couple. Ellaria was absolutely beautiful in every way opposite of Sansa. She was short and dark and smiling. This exotic woman was the wife of Sansa’s soulmate in all but name. She wanted to hate the older woman but found she couldn’t. Only sorrow and apathy existed for her now. 

Sansa fought against the lump in her throat as the others made small talk. It was difficult to make herself listen and nod. Her attention perked when Margaery cheerfully asked if it was true that the Prince had a Mark. 

“Yes, my lady,” he said and pulled back ornate yellow sleeve. 

It was just as she’d imagined it. The Mark was dark against the edges, the colors fading into the brown of his skin to match patterns in Lady’s coat. The wolf sat calmly as Sansa had seen her do many times. Her fluffy tail curled around her paws. She loved being groomed and pampered except for her tail. She would sit on it sometimes, to try to keep it from being combed. Sansa had forgotten that. 

She squeezed her nails into her palms. She wanted nothing more than to pull back her own sleeve and say, “Look! It was a Red Viper but I had to burn it away. I swear it! It was even holding a spear.”

“Lady Stark, are you well?” He asked softly. 

Four faces peered back at her. The pale ones were pitying and the dark ones showed worry. Sansa hurriedly wiped away the few tears that had escaped, cursing herself internally.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said in her flat voice. “It’s been a very, long time since I’ve seen anything to do with a wolf. As it should be, of course. My family were all traitors and such imagery might bring out the taint in my traitor’s blood.”

He watched her, his dark eyes studying every inch of her face. They trailed down to her bare neck, the plain gown that was a little too short to be decent. She did not look like the Lady of Winterfell. Margaery had gifted her a necklace and a brooch before she found that Sansa had nothing to offer in return. She’d got Shae to trade them for fabric. She made the dresses herself. They were too large, but she’d grown into them and now, apparently, out of them. It was mortifying. 

“I studied at the Citadel in my youth and can tell you with confidence that there is no such disease.”

Sansa blinked at him, her heart thundering loud enough to deafen her thoughts. She might faint. Or vomit. Maybe both. 

“Sansa darling, are you well?” Margaery asked in her sweetest voice. Tones that honeyed meant that she was annoyed. She used it on Sansa as often as she used it on Joffrey in recent days. She’d have been beaten half to death by now if it were anyone else. That truth was enough to snap her back into her role of the simpleton. 

“Yes, forgive me, my lady. I was only thinking of how it was best for the Stark imagery to be forgotten, disease or no. Pardon me, Your Grace, my ladies. I should like to pray to the gods and reflect on how grateful I am for a king as forgiving and wise as Joffrey.”

“The Starks have ruled for thousands of years. They can never be forgotten. The North Remembers,” Oberyn drawled.

“The Starks are all dead,” Sansa said flatly. 

“Are you not a Stark?” Ellaria asked, studying her with a curious expression. 

“She killed my direwolf on the Trident just like her-” Sansa caught herself just in time. Joffrey calling her a traitor was one thing, but criticizing Robert’s defeat of Rhaegar was another. That would get her beheaded. 

The Dornish looked positively delighted and Margaery’s eyebrows flew up into her hair. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, my ladies. I must pray and reflect on my words. I fear the imagery of the wolf has caused a flare of my traitor’s blood. I must pray that our good king will be merciful as always.”

She rushed away without another glance. Sansa didn’t sleep that night. She sat beside her door with an ornate candelabra clutched in her hands. It was then, looking at the moon through the gap in her drapes, that Sansa made a decision. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa picked at her morning meal and rushed off to the godswood as quickly as her feet could carry her. She leaned against the heart tree with her book of prayers in her lap. It was the only book they let her have and Joffrey had barred her from the royal library. She didn’t read it anymore. She never did. She only dozed off in between the noises that would make her jump. 

It was almost noon when a stranger wandered into her haven. He was a pretty Dornish knight with blonde hair and blue eyes. He might have made her swoon when she was a foolish girl. 

“Ah! Lady Stark!” He bowed deeply, one hand on the tall spear he carried. “I am Ser Daemon Sand. My prince would like to invite you to lunch.”

She eyed him warily. “I beg your pardon Ser, but that would hardly be appropriate. My wards would need to approve a chaperone.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but there will be many Dornish men and women in attendance. Your worries are unfounded.”

She fought back a sigh. She tried to get out of it, at least. “Forgive me, Ser. Of course.”

She stood, smoothing her skirts down as far as they would go and carried her book primly. He led her silently through the castle until they reached a small garden on the eastern side of the castle. There was something almost peaceful about it with the balcony looking out over the sea. Then, she remembered that it was the Red Keep and all facade of serenity disappeared. The Prince had set up a small picnic. In addition to his Dornish companions, there were a few faces she recognized from around the castle. They cringed as Ser Daemon announced her. 

“Ah! You are a hard one to find! I’m glad you could join us,” Ellaria Sand called, gesturing to an empty cushion across from her. The Prince was next to her. “ No, please, no courtesies. This is a casual lunch among friends. Call me Ellaria. I wouldn’t use a title if I had one.”

There was nothing casual in the capital and she had no friends. She wasn’t hungry, she never was, but she took a piece of toast and a glass of lemon water after she was comfortable. “Forgive me, I was praying.” 

_Only Shae ever did and she had to flee the city after the Blackwater._ Sansa hadn’t been surprised to find that she was Lord Tyrion’s lover, but she was sad to see her go. Tyrion claimed to give her enough riches to live out the rest of her life in peace across the Narrow Sea. Oddly, maybe stupidly, she believed him. She’d lost her only two friends in the world after that battle. _Now it’s only “little dove” and “traitor” and “my lady”._

_“_ Reading the work of the seven in the godswood if you can believe it,” Ser Daemon reported. Sansa was a bit shocked when he sat next to her, his spear abandoned against a tall bush. She’d assumed he was on duty. 

“Interesting,” the Prince said. She worked very hard at looking anywhere but his face. “Would it be rude of me to ask why? I’m not familiar with Northern customs.”

Sansa took a long drink of water to stall while she thought up a lie. She decided to tell a half-truth. “There aren’t any weirwoods south of the Neck so the old gods can’t hear me.” 

A familiar heavy swish of skirts and even gait sounded at her back. Cersei had come. Sansa added hastily, “The Seven are most benevolent and gracious to calm my traitor’s blood.” 

“Quite right, little dove,” the queen cooed. 

Sansa dipped her head and murmured a cordial greeting with the others. The Dornish remained silent. The jovial atmosphere twisted into something cruel and tense in Cersei’s presence. The Queen was wearing a stiff red dress. Her gold jewelry glittered in the autumn sun. She looked like a song come to life, but she was more of a nightmare than anything so wistful. 

“What a _quaint_ gathering with such...interesting company.”

“Of course,” Oberyn said. “It’s no small event when the two great houses of the north and south of Westeros meet.” 

Cersei laughed prettily. “The Starks are a no longer considered one of the great houses, I’m afraid.”

“If that were true you wouldn’t be so terrified of Lady Sansa that you dress her in rags.”

A few snickers and cleared throats sounded down the cushions and blankets. Humiliated, she abandoned all pretense of eating the toast. 

“She refused her betrothed’s gifts of fabric that were given to her,” Cersei said scathingly. A horrible lie. Everyone at court knew that Joffrey was bound to destroy her gowns at one point. Even Sansa had to admit that buying opulent gowns was a waste. They made it harder to blend into the walls too. 

“I did not know the war was so hard on the Lannisters that they can only afford fabric as an engagement gift.”

Sansa drained her cup, wishing it was wine. This wasn’t about her at all. She was nothing more than an excuse to exchange barbs. He’d probably just invited her to draw the Queen out. She’d never be anything other than a pawn in their games. She watched as seagulls drifted over the sea so prettily. It would be wonderful to fly. Danaerys Targaryen would know, if the tales of her dragons were true. The Martells would support her if they were. Sansa would have liked to see the dragons. She would have liked to see Winterfell one last time. Maybe Jon, too. 

“Sansa!” 

She flinched at Cersei’s tone, glancing around for any Kingsguard. “Yes, my Queen?”

“Where does that pretty little head of yours go?”

“I was thinking of my brother, Your Grace.”

“Your brothers are all dead.”

“No.”

“Ah, the bastard at the Wall. Tell me, are bastards idolized in the North as they are in Dorne? I understand that Ned’s was raised with you.”

Sansa remained silent. She would not give him to Cersei. She kept Oberyn from her. She could do it with Jon, too. He was the last of them, the best of them, and she would not give him up. She would die first.

Cersei gave her a tight smile when it was evident that Sansa was ignoring her. “No matter. Find me after dinner, little dove.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” 

The party watched as the Queen strode away with her head held high. Slowly, small conversations began picking up. Oberyn and Ellaria were having a silent talk between themselves. One knew what the other was thinking with just a twitch of the brow. This was her soulmate with his wife, the mother of his children. a woman that knew him better than she ever would. Sansa toyed with the tassel of her pink cushion to hide her tears. They kept coming back, battling against her will for release. 

Sansa stood as gracefully as she could. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but a faintness has overtaken me. I wouldn’t want to make any of your other guests uncomfortable.”

Oberyn frowned up at her. “I was hoping to ask you more about the North.”

“I am always available, Your Grace.”

She turned away before she lost her pride. 

 

Sansa slept fitfully until a page knocked on her door. The dread knotting her insides lessened when they took a stairwell that would lead them to the Tower of the Hand. Tywin scared all of his children except for the king. In fact, Sansa thought he might fear the king. It would just take an empty hallway and a Kingsguard to end his reign. Tywin Lannister’s death would be the end of his precious legacy. Cersei was an idiot, Jaime didn’t care, and Tyrion would likely kill his father out spite. 

The hand’s solar was empty and unattended. Only the city lights revealed the red and gold decor. The colors were tiresome. Her mother had decorated Winterfell in Stark colors, of course, but they often had furniture and tapestries and trinkets in a complementary scheme. One would think that red and gold were the only colors the Lannisters knew. 

The page knocked on the door that led to a smaller, more personal chamber. A golden letter opener with an engraved lion glinted on a wooden desk. She snatched it, quick as a snake. Keeping her hands behind her back, she slipped the dull blade up her sleeve. It wouldn’t be too difficult to sharpen it at night.

Tywin and Cersei sat straight-backed on a round table that had served as Ned Stark’s dinner table. They looked more alike than she and her father ever had. Everyone always said she was so much like her mother that they never let her be her own person. They raised her to dress, speak, and think like Catelyn Tully. She used to resent when everyone called Arya a wolf. It hurt even more after Lady and the Trident. Now it was better that they believed her to be her mother incarnate. They forgot she was a wolf, that she had the blood of the first men and the Kings of Winter. 

With that thought, Sansa huddled in her seat and stared at a scratch on the table. _Did Arya do that? Or has it been there since Bloodraven and Shiera Seastar?_

“My daughter tells me you have been fraternizing with the Red Viper,” Tywin said in his cold voice. No greetings. No salutations. No respect. Not even for the gods with this one. 

“I haven’t, my Lord, I promise,” Sansa said. She made her voice tremble and her hands fidget. “He approached us in the gardens. I left so soon that Queen Margaery-“

“She isn’t the queen,” Cersei snapped.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” Sansa whispered. She tucked her chin into her chest to hide her triumph. 

“Continue,” he commanded. 

“I left so soon that Lady Margaery warned it was impertinent and rude for a girl of my station.”

_I am a Stark of Winterfell. My forefathers have been kings for thousands of years. Even the Wildlings fear my name._ “Then this morning the knight summoned me to the Prince’s lunch and I dared not refuse. Please, Your Grace, I tried to stay away. I’ve told him a hundred times that I have traitor’s blood. Please, my Lord-“

“Hush, child. Don’t cry. What did you speak about during lunch?”

Sansa took a shuddering breath. “He only had time to ask about weirwood trees before the Queen arrived. She and the Prince argued and then she left. I retired to my rooms soon after.”

“What were you arguing with the Prince about?” Tywin demanded of his daughter, his voice dripping with annoyance.

Cersei scowled at Sansa before she spun her lies. “That Dornish savage mocked Lady Sansa’s gowns. I had to defend her. She’ll be a Lannister, after all.”

“Why _is_ she dressed so plainly?” Tywin frowned. He obviously hadn’t noticed. “She’s the last member of a great house and soon to be a Lannister.”

“She refuses to let me dress her.”

Tywin didn’t say a thing. He stared at his daughter with hard green eyes until she gulped and looked away. Then, he turned his gaze on Sansa. 

“Why do you think the Queen does not dress you?”

_She’s a petty, jealous woman._

“The King....” Sansa whispered. She bit her lip and willed tears to come. They weren’t enough to fall, but it was enough to make Tywin sigh. 

“The King what?” He asked, exasperated. 

“He destroys them. He says I’m not worthy and rips them off and has me-“

“It’s not as dire as the girl says, Father.”

“Are you a maid, girl?!”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I suppose it wouldn’t matter. It would be a Lannister either way. This meeting has been a complete waste of my time, but I suppose some good will come if it. You’ve been betrothed long enough. You will marry Lord Tyrion a moon’s turn after the King.” 

She would do no such thing. Still, she nodded like the mouse she was supposed to be. 

“I don’t know why Cersei couldn’t make you do it sooner, but it’s no matter.”

It was the best beating of Sansa’s life. Cersei had told her that Sansa was to marry the dwarf and she would have a dozen Lannister dwarves to rule over the North. Sansa told her she would kill herself before she gave them Winterfell. The queen looked like something had died under her nose. She called in Ser Maryn and demanded that he give her twenty lashes. He bruised her ribs but it was worth every second of the pain.

“Sansa?” Tywin prompted. 

“Yes, my lord,” Sansa said. 

“Good, you’re excused.”

Sansa pushed her chair back. She paused after she closed the door. Tywin immediately rounded on Cersei for wasting his time and disgracing the family name. Sansa slept peacefully for the first time in a month. 

——————-

She needed a piece of charcoal and two bits of parchment. A quill and ink were out of the question. Traitors weren’t allowed such things, of course, so improvisation was needed. The more difficult way would be to beg the kitchens for some sweets to use as currency with the younger servants. Margaery would say no, at least until she was married. Instead, she would ask Oberyn Martell. It was a poor excuse to see him again, but she was feeling much more rested and Cersei wouldn’t dare intrude in his own rooms. He rented a townhouse near the Red Keep instead of using his allotted chambers. It was an insult and a relief to the Lannisters.

A maid let her enter. She studied the house curiously. The tan stone that made up the city had been whitewashed and painted with murals of the sea. It was very pretty. She’d never seen any of the homes in the city, to her regret. She knew the people of Wintertown took pride in weaving and carving. Hearths were usually the most decorated part of a family’s home. More of the small folk could read than anywhere else in Westeros. There wasn’t much else to do when the snows locked you in for weeks at a time. Her father had taught her all of this, had shown her on their walks around their home. Joffrey would rather die than step one foot in Flea Bottom, though that might be for self-preservation than anything else. 

“Lady Sansa, what a nice surprise, ” Ellaria said. She squeezed her shoulders and kissed each of her cheeks. It was too much touching for Sansa’s taste.

“I hope I’m not an inconvenience. I wanted to speak with the Prince.” 

“Of course not! He had meetings in the Keep and left me here with only the ladies to entertain me. He’s a cruel man. Is there something I can help you with?” 

Sansa chewed on her lip. Oberyn would have brought her anyway, she decided. 

“Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” She asked.

Ellaria led her through a small courtyard and into a messy office. Books, scrolls, and knives were scattered around the room. A tray of food was still on the desk. It was cozy. She suddenly felt like an intruder. 

“I have a proposition to make,” Sansa said. 

Ellaria studied her for a moment. 

“I cannot make any promises for Oberyn, but I can relay a message.”

“I’ll answer whatever questions he has about his Mark in return for parchment and charcoal.”

The other woman’s mouth opened and closed twice before her face went tight with some harsh emotion. Wordlessly, she spun on her heel and stomped to the desk. She pushed through the clutter until she found what Sansa needed. Sansa nodded in thanks and shoved it down her bodice. 

“Call on me whenever it suits you,” Sansa said.

They didn’t bother exchanging goodbyes. Outside, her guard was flirting with a pretty doe eyed girl selling flowers. Sansa pulled her shawl over her head and entered the Keep through the stables. She stopped to steal a whetstone. 

That night, she kneeled in the moonlight and wrote a letter to the last family she had left. 

——————

Sansa wore her hair in the northern fashion to the opening luncheon. The throne room was filled with fifty round tables covered with cloths full of roses and lions. There wasn’t a stag in sight. There were shields of all the noble houses that the Lannisters agreed with lining the dining area. Rose petals of every color were used instead of carpets. It was pretty, if not ostentatious. 

It took her a while to find her name plate. She was seated at the Dornish table between Oberyn and a woman she hadn’t met. It was far too close to Joff’s stage. She sighed and prepared herself for an interview or humiliation. Probably both. The princes must have wanted something interesting pass the next few hours.

The Martell party was predictably late. They were the last to be seated beside the King himself. Sansa shuddered as she thought of all the reasons he could be late. Lady Fowler had dark skin and long hair done in tiny braids. Her mother had married a wealthy merchant from Southroyos. The lady was a stunning mixture of both features. She talked a lot. Or maybe it had been so long since Sansa had a genuine conversation that it seemed like a lot of effort.

No-one at her table pretended to listen to the bride and groom’s speeches. Lady Olenna didn’t either. She was rolling her eyes at a lion salt shaker. Lord Baelish was too busy eyeing Sansa with a possessiveness bordering on aggression to listen. She’d rather be beaten by Joffrey than deal with whatever sick things he had in mind. She’d become an expert on avoiding the man, though she did admit that he gave her good advice when she was forced to endure his lingering touches.

The first of ten courses was a light salad. She picked here and there, staring down at her plate as she answered all of Oberyn’s questions: Yes, the youngest Marked was expected to travel. Yes, she had a guess as to why his hadn’t. It involved the Boltons and the lions on the dais above them. No, same sex relations weren’t as scandalous as they were below the Neck, though not common. No, bastards were not as free as they were in Dorne. However, Northerners were quick to respect anyone that proved themselves. 

He only seemed to take a breath when she slipped the folded parchment into his lap. He brushed his foot against hers in assurance and continued on without a fault. 

She didn’t get a break until the sixth course. Servants carried the tallest platters she’d ever seen. Excited whispers echoed throughout the room. She shared an exasperated smile with the lord across from her. It would be nothing more than some sort of entree carved and arranged to resemble a rose. 

Two men placed the platter in the center of their table. They took great care to rotate the engraved lions to face her. Sansa broke out in a cold sweat. Maybe the Dornish didn’t request her company. Joffrey could have placed all of his enemies together for some sort of game. 

The lid lifted and Sansa screamed. It wasn’t a dainty thing that ladies were mocked for. It was guttural. It was a scream from a different sort of pain. 

Grey Wind’s head was massive. From his tattered ears to his neck dwarfed her torso. He had started to rot before they embalmed him. The beautiful, grey fur was patchy and matted. She remembered admiring his solid grey coat. His left eye, once golden, was now crusted and empty from whatever bolt had killed him. 

The death wound calmed her. It ebbed away the darkness crawling over her vision. 

Joffrey was saying something but she couldn’t make out the words. A fast, rhythmic noise pulsed through her ears. She couldn’t hear anything over it. 

A warm hand touched her and she jerked to her feet. Her chair fell with a clatter, the sound almost disrespectful in the utter silence. Lady Fowler stood too. The pity in her sad smile was too much to bear. Sansa shoved out of her hold, her feet twisting on the rose petals. She didn’t need sadness or pity, she needed rage. She needed justice. Vengeance. Fire and blood. 

“What? I can’t you hear you!” Joffrey taunted. His green eyes were still shining with tears of laughter. As the king glanced around with jovial mirth, he became annoyed when no one laughed at his poor joke.

There was nothing to say. Nothing she did could appeal to whatever mercy was buried deep in his festering soul. His mother was fighting back a smile. She would be of no help. Tywin Lannister was snarling in the King’s ear, but it would do no good. Joffrey would only tell him to shut up or die. 

Sansa had already delivered the letters. There was nothing left for her now. 

In a daze, she turned and hurried to the door, rushing to her death.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry it took so long. I wrote this chapter last week, but decided it was super ridiculous even for a fanfic. So I scrapped it. In this fic (as in many others), Gregor killed his little sister, whom Sandor adored.
> 
> TW: suicidal thoughts and plans. there aren't any details, but i would skip this chapter if it bothers you.

Sansa huddled in the shadow of Balerion the Black Dread. The dark bone seemed to absorb any bit of light. Robert Baratheon would not have boasted of the dragon skulls hidden within a deep cellar and therefore she hoped no one would think to search among the symbols of a dead family. She spent the day dozing off and studying the beast’s mouth. It was so impossibly massive. Just the thought of how large his body must have been in proportion made her queasy. And to fly on it! 

She was done with the Lannisters. If she stayed in the city any longer, she wouldn’t wait until a marriage with Tyrion to slit her wrists with the letter opener. There was no one left to save her. She’d rejected the Hound for Stannis and Stannis had lost. Her brothers were killed with treachery. Her sister was dead. Only she and Jon remained, the last two members of a house that had ruled for thousands of years.

The scuff of boots on stone echoed throughout the tomb. Sansa stilled. She‘d found this place over a year ago after the Battle of the Blackwater. Everyone was far too busy to pay any attention to her so she took to exploring the forgotten passageways of the Keep. Slowly, carefully, she snuck to the back of the mouth. She used a groove as a foothold to pull herself up on to the jaw and peered around the tooth. It was as wide as she would have been if she weren’t so thin. 

The man- for those steps were light but obviously male- paused every few feet. If it was another guard, they were more concerned with studying the dragons than searching for the escaped prisoner as the first one had done. He had appeared hours ago, creaking around the room. He’d stopped in front of Balerion for a long time. Sansa had been too frightened to breath. Then with a muttered “gods”, he’d clanked away. Now, as the dull light of a lantern came ever closer, she wrapped herself around the dragon tighter as if she could will it back to life out of sheer desperation. 

Oberyn Martell came around a skull almost as large as Balerion. Sansa’s arms nearly gave out in relief. A thin dark cloak made him one with the shadows. His dark eyes darted around the rooms, searching for a traitor. A darker shape hovered behind him. A guard or a friend. Not a Lannister. Never a Lannister with Elia Martell’s little brother.

Sansa climbed back down the monster’s jaw. She stopped to pick up her shoes before she slipped around the thick, black bone. 

“I feared you wouldn’t make it,” she said.

His head snapped to the left. Brows furrowed, he strode over with the lantern held out before him.

“I asked long ago what the Usurper did with them.” His voice was still mischievous and sultry, even in the tomb of an age gone past. She watched as he looked out into the boneyard. “I am a scholarly man, after all. It would have been a shame to see such a piece of history destroyed for one man’s grudge.” 

They regarded one another curiously. Butterflies whirled in her stomach. She hadn’t felt anything like it since she met Joffrey.What a stupid, stupid girl she’d been. She could only hope that she wasn’t even stupider than before. 

“I read your letter,” he finally said. “I copied it in case it were to smudge on the journey. I did not mean to offend you.”

“Thank you.”

Her letter to Jon wasn’t anywhere as short as she’d wanted it to be. She found that she couldn’t just apologize and wish him well. She told him that Arya chased cats around the Red Keep, how the city smelled terribly but looking out over the sea was so peaceful, about all the different languages and people at the docks. Most of all, she talked about home. 

“How did you know about this place?” the Prince asked. Sansa’s note to him was much shorter. _The black dread sleeps at the darkest hour._

“Arya came back filthy and screaming about dragon skulls one day. I didn’t believe her, of course, until I went on a stroll one night.”

“The Lannisters allow you to peruse the castle at your leisure?”  
“They forget about me when Lady Luck deigns to look in my direction. Though she’s been far more active since my brother was murdered.”

“Is that safe?” A deeper voice asked. 

The brown hood of the cloaked figure fell back to reveal dark blonde hair and blue eyes. She bowed her head in greeting to Ser Daemon. 

“I....had a friend. He protected me. In his own way, when he could. He followed me most of the time. We never spoke on those nights, not unless he scared someone away. They killed his sister too. I think I reminded him of her.”

“The Lannisters are good at killing brothers and sisters,” Oberyn muttered, his eyes unfocused. He remembering a time when the skulls around them still hung in the throne room, when small, bloody bundles were lain at Robert Baratheon’s feet. 

“As well as lying with them, it seems,” she said softly. 

Both men turned their full attention to her. It was staggering. Their lithe, muscled frames held more power than hers ever would. They wouldn’t even have to access that strength to kill her. The Red Viper and his closest friend could give her a long, painful death from an ocean away. It did not help that they were both attractive. And exotic with their deep tans and trilling accents. Sansa sent a surge of ice through her spine. She could not be distracted. She could not appear weak. It was not just her life that hung in the balance. This late rendezvous would determine the fate of her house. It would determine the fate of the North. 

“Why did you bring me here?” Oberyn asked flatly. 

“There are a lot of answers to your question. I will not last in this place much longer, Prince of Dorne. Today’s entertainment should prove that quite well,” She dropped his viper gaze to stare back at Balerion. “I will not let him have me. I will die before the Lannisters have a drop of blood in Winterfell. I’ve sworn with my own blood to the old, new, and drowned gods. You swore a vow to protect women when you became a knight. The silliest answer is that I want to believe there is a true knight somewhere in the realm.

She turned to face him again. Again, she could not interpret his expression. Sansa smiled sadly to herself as she went on. 

“I know you want revenge. They murdered my brother too. Did you know they stabbed his pregnant wife in the belly? Joffrey had Meryn Trant punch me there as he told me. He said it was so I could feel what she did. He told me to imagine he was doing it to my baby imp. Revenge is not yours alone, my prince. Gregor Clegane has killed more sisters than your own. I know someone who hates him more than you do.”

His jaw clenched and she heard his teeth grinding from a foot away. “I doubt that, my lady.”

“Perhaps.” She truly didn’t know which of her dangerous men hated the Mountain more. There might even be some farmer from the Riverlands who took the prize. “It is not in my power to decide. Just as it is not in yours. Revenge truly isn’t in the power of any man.”

She turned back to Balerion. The prince and the knight joined her on either side. 

“You believe the rumors?” Dameon asked. 

“I think I was supposed to be a warg.” The confession came in a whisper. The words were more to herself and the dead than them. “Each of Ned Stark’s children were given a direwolf. Even Jon Snow has his. The queen killed mine and my sister’s fled. Arya told me about wolf dreams though. About hunting in the forest. With what I’ve heard of my brother, I think we must have been wargs.”

“I thought them fables,” Oberyn said, eyeing her with the same curiosity he’d had for the skulls. 

“The North remembers,” She reminded him. “Did you know that a man from the Night’s Watch came to King’s Landing? He had a hand in his possession. He said it belonged to a wight that almost killed his Lord Commander. Of course it had rotted to almost nothing when he got here. Joffrey couldn’t stand the smell long enough to see it, which means it must have been truly pungent if he would turn down something so macabre. We northerners are a superstitious lot. We live in the shadow of the Wall. So yes, Ser Daemon, I believe the rumors of dragons flying once more.“

The men were silent as they contemplated her words. 

“That’s why you wrote your brother,” the prince guessed. 

“No,” she answered truthfully. “I wanted him to know he isn’t alone in the world. And he couldn’t reply if he wanted to. Where would he send his letter?”

They were quiet once more. Sansa was patient, allowing them to come to their own conclusions. It would work in her favor if they thought of it themselves. 

“Why would I help you? What would I gain? I could carry on with my plan and have my revenge before this ridiculous wedding is over,” Oberyn said. 

This was the part she’d silently rehearsed for two days. This would be her life or death. Her escape or her doom.

_‘Your life. Whatever you had planned to do, you will die. You have too much to live for Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne, Father of the Sand Snakes. Its an insult to those like me to throw away a life of such freedom. Our queen will agree. If Danaerys Targaryen is even half as beautiful as they say, she is a lonely girl surrounded by greedy men. We are both young women usurped by the Lannisters and forced to live far from home. Shackled in a way that you will never be. I know I do not have money or power. I am the heir to an usurped kingdom, to a broken and arid kingdom on the cusp of winter. But the North remembers. Help put it back to rights and it will always answer Dorne’s call.’_

Instead, she shrugged. “The same reasons you agreed to meet with me.”

The dornishmen and the northerner regarded one another with veiled thoughts. Players of the game. A pawn that had leveled up and the silent threat waiting to strike. The snakes and the wolf. The suns and the snow. 

“We’ll have to marry,” Oberyn finally said. 

Her heart leapt into her throat. Did he know? He couldn’t know. She’d burned it before anyone saw it. Though if anyone knew, it would be him. Did he have a way of knowing? Would she have instinctually known if the circumstances were different? She swallowed the bile fighting its way up. 

“Peace,” he murmured, reaching out to her. She took a wide step back, triggering a despairing expression on his stern face. “I will not harm you, Sansa Stark. I only mean to secure our hold on you. They will marry you to your imp if they suspect anything.”

She knew that. She had suspected it even, but ultimately disregarded it as a girl’s foolishness. 

“Thegodswood.”

The words were out in one breath before she thought them. 

“Pardon?” He asked, brows furrowed. 

Sansa let out a barking, hysterical laugh that reminded her of Sandor Clegane. Oberyn and Daemon exchanged a worried glance. She calmed herself long enough to put her thoughts in order. There seemed to be a hundred of them racing around in her mind. 

“Forgive me. It’s only that Starks marry in front of a weirwood tree and I think I forgot where I was for a moment.”

It was a half truth. Really, she wanted to marry her soulmate in front of the Old Gods. It seemed right somehow, like it was something she just knew. _Superstitious, indeed, you little fool._

“It must be now. Are you sure you’re up to it?” He asked.

_No._

“Yes.”

The prince nodded shortly and began whispering rapidly to Daemon. The knight nodded and hurried off into the shadows. She and Oberyn watched him go in a tense silence.

“Are you sure _you’re_ up to it?” She asked. “You’re already married in a sense. Will she-“

He closed the gap in one stride, gathered her hands in his and held them to his chest. She was so tall that he didn’t have to bend to meet her gaze. She swayed, totally transfixed, and had to make a physical effort to keep her eyes off of his lips. 

“Ellaria is the mother of my children. I have spent many years with her. She pulled me out of a darkness that I believe you are flirting with. We both knew I might marry one day. It is simply part of being a prince. I love Ellaria, but that does not mean I will not love you too someday, if you let me.”

Sansa nodded and made to step away. The man that would be her husband before daybreak did not let her go. He kissed her knuckles and rubbed his thumbs over her fingers. Her heart began thudding dangerously for a very different reason than it had been. 

“Such elegant hands,” he murmured, his breath hot on her skin. She shivered.

He turned them over and pried her fingers open. He kissed one palm and then the other and dropped her hands. She exhaled shakily, hoping he would mistake the reason for her fear. 

“Come, my bride. Flea Bottom awaits.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Work is slow so here’s the wedding. It’s all rainy and muggy so there aren’t any customers.

Sansa’s wedding was nothing like she’d dreamt it to be. It might have been fun or exhilarating if it weren’t a matter of life and death. She tried to make herself imagine that she was eloping with her betrothed prince in a foreign city. It didn’t make her any less grim. Truthfully, the fact that she had to try to pretend made it that much worse. There was also the small fact that her husband’s paramour, the mother of some of his bastard daughters, was to serve as a witness did not settle her empty stomach any more. Oh, if Mother could see me now....

The beautiful Lady Fowler sensed her discomfort. Her braids swung as she turned to pat Sansa’s hand. “Do not look so dire, Princess. The Prince is a good man.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about.”

The lady frowned at her. “Nonsense! Tell me one good thought.”  
Sansa studied the room as she thought. Littlefinger sometimes played these sort of games with her, though they did not involve good thoughts. The sept was the grandest structure in all of flea bottom, meaning the walls and the roof were not in disrepair. The statues of the Seven were mismatched, giving the shrines a charming and sincere aura. Someone had taken great effort into carving the Stranger’s shrine out of dark stone. Despite the heaps of random offerings, the room was as clean as a well used building in the slums could be.

“I suppose I go well with the venue.”

Ellaria caught her eye and smiled. She, Lady Fowler, and Ser Daemon were the witnesses. The knight and the groom were gone to find a septon. Three dornish soldiers in common clothes stood guard over the women, though Sansa suspected the other two ladies could guard themselves. Steeling herself, Sansa walked to join Ellaria in front of the Mother’s statue. This section had more practical offerings than the others. It was an uncomfortable conversation but a necessary one. She fingered an old crochet hook as she spoke.

“I want you to know that I won’t take him from you. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. It won’t be for spite if I do.”

They both knew that things would change if they ever went north. The northerners didn’t rely on propriety, but polygamy was something else entirely. Oberyn would have to act as the Lord of Winterfell for years at least. Long enough for Sansa to solidify herself as a worthy ruler.

“I know,” Ellaria said softly. “I could never blame you. I’ve been telling him to do something about you for days. ”

Sansa hadn’t known that. She studied her groom’s lover. Ellaria was more attractive than beautiful. She was in her thirties but didn’t seem tired despite it being so near dawn. Her gown was simple and elegant, if a little more revealing than what Sansa was used to. The servants were letting out one of Lady Fowler’s dresses across the city for herself. She was to be presented as a princess of Dorne, not a prisoner of war in only a few hours.

“I’ll never keep his daughters from him,” Sansa promised. “My mother....I loved her very much, but she had her faults. She treated Jon Snow horribly.”

“That is good. Oberyn would never allow it, nor would his daughters.”

“My sister would have done well in Dorne.”

“Have you heard anything of her?”

“No. If she’s alive.....if she’s alive, do you think we could spread word for her to go to Sunspear somehow?”

Ellaria nodded thoughtfully. “If Oberyn thinks of nothing, Doran surely will. His mind is as sharp as any blade.”

“I hope we can be friends Ellaria.”

“I think we will. I liked your act, you know. You play the game well.”

“It wasn’t all an act,” Sansa said quietly.

Whatever Ellaria was going to say was cut off by the door opening. Three men rushed inside, one of them half dragged by the first. Oberyn shoved an old man more stooped than Pycelle in her direction before he slung off his dirty cloak and replaced it with a finer one. The groom’s cloak. She swallowed nervously. The orange silk would wash out her pallid complexion, but she’d take it over Lannister crimson any day.

“Where in seven hells did you find this one?” Ellaria stared at the old septon with her eyebrows nearly in her hair.

“I’m not in the hells yet, girl,” the old man said in a voice as strong as an ox.

“Who are you?” the paramour asked.

“Septon Mors,” Oberyn answered. “A septon that disagrees with his superior’s loyalty to Lannister gold. I’ve promised him safety in return for his service.”

The septon spat. “More like delayed my death for another week. I’m an old man. I’ve decided I might like to be remembered for something.”

“The High Septon does glint a bit more than I would like,” Sansa said wryly.

“Ha! You’d think he’d have learned from the last one.”

“What happened to the last one?” Lady Fowler asked.

Sansa shuddered at the memory. She still dreamed of the thin man waving the fat arm in victory. “He was pulled apart in a riot.”

“Found him in ten pieces I heard. Fed Flea Bottom for a month.”

“I don’t know about my bride, but I would rather not have cannibalism as part of my wedding vows, Septon,” Oberyn drawled.

“What do you want in the vows if not that?” The septon’s fine hair swayed with every move of his head. It seemed to take him a year to reach the shrine.

“Something short,” Oberyn retorted as he crossed the room. “My lady?”

Sansa hesitated, but placed her hand in his. Their contrasting skin looked beautifully peculiar beside one another. She found that her mouth was dry and she couldn’t look anywhere but down at the septon’s swaying white hair.

“Alright then. Cloak her.”

With swift, precise movements, Oberyn removed her dirty cloak and passed it to Daemon. They would need it to sneak back to the townhouse. He removed his own cloak and clasped it at her neck. She shivered when his fingers brushed against her skin.

“My lords, my ladies,” the septon proclaimed sarcastically. Lady Fowler curtsied with a dramatic flourish. “We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, now and forever.”

One soul, Sansa thought to herself. Those words were only added when soul marked were wed. She wondered if the septon would be so mocking if he knew.

"Let it be known that Lady Sansa of the House Stark and Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell are one heart, one flesh-“

One soul.

“Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

He pulled a long strip of muslin out of his robes. Sansa’s heart dropped to the floor. She’d forgotten about this part. The septon would tie their hands together. She should have secured her sleeves, pulled them down more, done something, anything. As he wrapped the frayed strip around their joined hands, he quickly recited: "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two people....”

He trailed off as his finger brushed Sansa’s exposed wrist. He felt the ruined skin, realized what it meant. His clear lilac eyes met hers. She stared at the septon in defiance. Unblinking, he finished the speech without removing his eyes from hers.

“....binding them as one for eternity."

He unraveled the linen and placed back in his pocket. Sansa tried to pull away from Oberyn but the prince was too quick for her. Quick as a snake, he turned her arm over and pulled back the sleeve in the same movement.

The light, almost humorous atmosphere fell into silent tension. What had been teetering on a joyous occasion was deteriorating into the chaos they’d tried to prevent. Everyone in the room stretched and shuffled to peer at the mottled skin. It had healed quite well. It wasn’t as lumpy as Sandor’s cheek seeing as she hadn’t pressed it into the burning brazier. The scar was shiny and red with purple bubbles interspersed throughout it. Straight, deep ridges marked where she had flipped the poker over on itself. She might have been fond of the scar if it weren’t so difficult to hide.

“When.” The word was a croak.

Sansa floundered at the agony in his gaze. It made him look twice his age. His mysterious eyes were weary and angry, his sensual mouth pressed into a tight line. She was confused by his intensity. She’d never allowed herself any fondness toward whoever the Red Viper was. It was strange to wonder what he felt for whomever he thought his northern girl might be. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider it.

“When did it appear,” he demanded, assuming she didn’t understand the question.

She tried to speak, failed, wet her lips, tried again, but nothing would come out. The grip on her forearm tightened. A murderous wave of heat rolled out from him. It enveloped her, warming her to the bone. She wanted nothing more than to nestle herself in its scent and relish in his violence. He thought the Lannisters burned it away. He was ready to march in and kill them in their beds. Part of her wanted to let him think it, to let him kill them all.

“I did,” she whispered. She couldn’t hear her voice over the steady woosh of blood in her ears.

He dropped her arm as if it stung him. She found herself reaching out to him as he tried to escape.

“Please,” she said quietly, glancing around at the room shyly. The wedding guests were all either pitying or confused. The attention made her stomach roil even more. She spoke as quietly as she could, close enough to kiss. “I couldn’t let them have you. They took everything from me. They took everybody away from me. I only had you and Jon left. I’ll die before they get either of you, I’ve sworn it to every god I know. It was the only-“

His hand squeezed her jaw. Viper eyes devoured her face, darting from her lips to her eyes.

“You mad, beautiful creature,” he muttered.

She thought he might kiss her. She didn’t know if she wanted him to. Regardless, he stormed away before she could decide. It left her shaking. She hardly notice the door slam behind him. Daemon and a few of the guard trailed after, plunging the room into an silence more awkward than any before it.

The old septon led her to a driftwood pew. Lady Fowler hovered nearby, as if unsure as to whether her support would be appreciated. Sansa worked on taking deep breaths and not going into one of the fits she suffered in the beginning of her stay at King’s Landing. The panic would overtake her senses and leave her breathless and exhausted. She could feel the pain pressing against her breastbone as a warning.

“Targaryen?” Sansa asked, trying to distract herself.

“Dayne,” Septon Mors replied. “We shed our past lives when we take our vows but when Princess Elia’s little brother asked me for help, I could not resist the call of the sun.”

“I apologize. This must not have been what you expected.”

“No. It is a rare privilege to wed soulmarked. I daresay I will remember this for the rest of my short life.”

The room lapsed into silence once more. It was Ellaria who spoke first. “It is almost dawn. We have a lot of work to do if we are to present our new princess. Have you signed the papers, Septon Mors?”

He nodded from his seat beside her. Ellaria offered her hand to Sansa. Her gaze was unreadable.

“Come then, Princess. We have a long morning ahead of us.”

Sansa accepted the offer with the same emotionless mask. Not for the first time, she wondered if she would ever be able to put it away. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg! I kept trying to find a place to end this chapter but it just kept going and going! Long installment for me. Major fluff.

Oberyn was not at the townhouse. The night sky was fading into a rich blue when they slipped in the side door. Dark hands ushered Sansa up a narrow, winding staircase, down an airy corridor and into a rich bedroom. Floor to ceiling windows made up the eastern wall. The shutters were slidden open to reveal a lush courtyard that conjoined with the vast wall of the keep. Even here Cersei towered over the last Stark.

Her handmaidens were dressed in loose orange dresses that highlighted the bronze tones of their skin. Their drooped shoulders and bloodshot eyes were less flattering. Sansa recalled that Lady Fowler had the maids take in one of her gowns. They couldn’t have slept more than an hour.

“I’m sorry. You must be exhausted,” Sansa said.

The shorter one, who had a button nose and golden strands in her curly hair, gave her a bright smile. She dipped into a deep curtesy. “Not a word, Princess.”

Princess. She’d dreamed of being a princess. Most girls did. Surely even Arya had fantasized about being a young Nymeria with a circlet in her hair and a sword in her hand. Now she knew what princess meant. It was another target on her back, more responsibility. The well-being of two kingdoms now rested on her shoulders. The North was ruined. What would she do to Dorne?

“Sansa, please.”

“Alright, Sansa Please,” she said with a teasing grin. “I am Tia and this is Arielle. Could you turn so we can undress you?”

Princess Sansa Please grimaced, but obeyed. They unclipped the dragonfly clasps from her bodice and sat them aside. They unwrapped her purple dress, eyes catching on her scar. Dutifully, the girls said nothing and began folding the garment into a neat square.

“No, don’t. It’s filthy and too short. It isn’t worth the work to scrub it.”

“Yes, Princess,” Arielle said quietly. She was taller, almost of a height with Sansa and had shiny black hair braided down her hip. She hoped the maid let her style it one day. It looked marvelously smooth. 

The double doors opened. Ellaria and Lady Fowler breezed in with their hands full of jewelry and silk.

“Go get a nap in girls. You’ve worked very hard. The gown is lovely,” Ellaria said.

The maids glanced at one another shyly.

“We’d prefer to stay,” Arielle said. It was interesting that the girls looked into their ladies’ eyes. Most of the girls in the Red Keep were frightened of every shadow. “It would be an honor to dress the Princess for her first presentation.”

“Princess, what would you prefer?” Lady Fowler asked.

The morning wasn’t important enough to raise suspicion by barring someone’s spies from an event. The girls had to belong to someone, whether a Martell or a Lannister. It wouldn’t be wise to ruffle feathers less than an hour after her marriage.

“You’re very sweet. You may stay if you wish.”

With a short nod, Arielle immediately began unlacing her corset. The other girl started working on her knotted braid. Sansa didn’t tie her corset as tight as was proper but there was still a simple satisfaction in removing it. She was still relishing in the small freedom when she heard a barely concealed gasp.

Sansa opened her heavy eyes. All the women were staring at her body, the slip forgotten at her feet. She was naked except for her smallclothes. Subconsciously, she raised her hands to cover her breasts. It made no difference. They were staring at how her pale skin was struggling against each rib, how sharp the bones of her hips had become, the yellowing bruises on her thighs, and the small set of scars on her back.

“Should I find another dress?” Lady Fowler whispered.

“Nothing else will fit,” Ellaria hissed back.

“Is that wise? Oberyn is upset enough as it is. When he sees-”

“Don’t you think I know? I know him better than anyone...”

Better than me, you mean. Sansa took it upon herself to get into the tub while the women bickered. Her relationship with Ellaria would be strained now that the truth was out. It was one thing for your lover to have a wife, but to have a soul mate was another.

It was a strange competition. Ellaria was older, wiser and infinitely sexier. She exuded lust with every step even though she was never the most beautiful woman in the room. She’d birthed his daughters and cared for the ones she hadn’t. Sansa, on the other hand, wasn’t sure what qualities she had to offer Oberyn other than her name. He was a scholar and a warrior. All she knew about herself was that she enjoyed dressmaking and dancing. She doubted Oberyn Martell shared her passion for embroidery.

“We will have to wash your hair when you return. It will not dry in time for court,” Tia said as she draped the long red locks over the edge of the brass tub.

“I guessed as much. I doubt Cersei will be paying much attention to my hair anyway.”

“No, she will not. We are going to ensure that all anyone sees is how they have mistreated you.”

“Lady Fow-“

“Jimma, dear.” At Sansa’s apparent confusion, she explained in a rush, “Short for Ximena. It may be difficult to endure their scrutiny, but it is a necessary strategy.”

“On the contrary Jimma, it’s quite unnecessary. They know all too well of my mistreatment. They watched most of it happen.”

Sansa leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. It was painted with pretty pink clouds and seagulls. A beautiful lie. The true nature of the city was vicious.

“Joffrey had me stripped and beaten when Robb was victorious on the field. My brother was a prodigy of sorts. He won every battle, you know. In the end he was stupid enough to lose it all.”

Ellaria cursed in a tone that reminded Sansa of Shae. She missed the petite girl and her impertinence. Pain flashed through her arm and Sansa jumped, splashing water onto the pale floor. Ellaria loomed over her, her nails dug into deep into her arm that rested on the tub.

“Your brother was a fool. He disrespected the Freys by marrying the foreign girl but what happened to him was unforgivable. No one deserves to be butchered and have their bodies descreted. The gods will have their blood or we will take it ourselves. Forgive your brother, but never forget all that they have done.”

Sansa felt light enough to fly up into the pink clouds. To have someone speak of her brother, of any of her family, as anything other than vermin had not happened in years. The lie, the excuse of traitor’s blood was on the tip of her tongue, but she kept it down.

“Come,” Ellaria said more gently. “We’ll dry your tears with the rest of you. It’ll take all day to get those tangles out.”

She wasn’t too far off the mark. Sansa was not ready to leave until the sun had already begun climbing the sky. She examined herself in the mirror curiously.

Her auburn hair was braided in a crown with a few curls pulled out to frame her face. Gold trim from one of Oberyn’s tunics was weaved into it, glinting in the sunlight when she moved her head. The girls had powdered her face to hide the dark circles under her eyes. Her eyes were lined with coal and her full lips were painted wine red. The dress was plain but elegant and dramatic. A deep emerald silk, it was the most revealing thing she’d ever worn. There was no back whatsoever. Two strips of fabric joined at her neck were all that held up the garment. They flowed like water to barely cover her breasts and meet just above her navel before the skirts pooled around her feet. A long slit revealed a glimpse of her thigh when she walked.

Ellaria lent her a bronze snake armlet and fashioned one of Oberyn’s necklaces in an interesting fashion. The pendant, a black crystal of some sort, was nestled in to the hollow of her throat and the length of the unclasped chain was cold against her spine.

She looked, she surmised, like a foreign witch from a children’s tale. She looked more beautiful than she had felt in years. She looked like a woman.

“What do you think?” Sansa asked Ellaria as her reflection appeared. She wore a yellow gown and gold jewelry carrying the snake motif.

“You look like the second most powerful woman in the realm.”

Suddenly full of trepidation, Sansa spun away without a word.

———

Sansa Stark walked into the throne room with ten spears at her back. It was a remarkable difference from the day before. Only yesterday she was a prisoner of war.

She didn’t push the image of the Grey Wind’s rotting head away. She seared it into her mind. The obscenity became fuel instead of fear. The Princess of Dorne moved calmly, ignoring the building whispers that ricocheted off of the ceiling and walls. She’d made the same walk before a hundred times, but she’d never heard them whisper in awe. Wildfire sparked and licked its way through her veins.

Oberyn watched her approach with the most nefarious grin she’d ever seen. She let her own smirk show through the cold persona. This would be a small retribution compared to the injustices they had faced, but the first revenge of many. She was so intoxicated with his grin that she didn’t realize when she reached the throne’s stairs. She’d begged and bled here so often.

Oberyn strode to her, cupped her face with his hands and pressed a hard, lingering kiss to the left corner of her lips, then the right, close as he could get to her mouth without smudging Arielle’s meticulous work. The wildfire became a storm. It was energy and fire and want. A want for him. A want for blood. She’d only felt this once, just before she’d made to push Joffrey off the battlements all those years ago.

She was a wolf again.

When he pulled back and saw her ravenous expression, Sansa thought he might take her in the middle of the throne room. Men stole glances at her often enough, some even openly stared, but not like this. Not like they would consume every drop of her being and leave her begging for more. He licked his lips, stepped away, but intertwined their fingers.

“Your Grace,” Oberyn announced loudly. The room went silent. “May I present my new wife, Sansa Stark. Lady of Winterfell and Princess of Dorne.”

Sansa curtsied as much as the tight gown would allow. She let her gaze drift up the stairs. Tywin was first. Oddly, he never sat higher than was necessary. His thin lips were pressed together so hard she wondered if they would ever part.

Up, up, up, she looked, trying very hard not to smile. When she saw how red Cersei’s face was, she had to bite the inside of her cheek. The Queen Mother was furious. Cersei had different levels of anger. Mere annoyance was a subtle eye roll. True rage was a beaming smile and silent fantasies of the receiver’s long death. Then there was an eruption of vehemence that was reserved for Sansa and Margaery. Both girls were secretly proud of the accomplishment. 

The joy Sansa had taken from Cersei’s rage fluttered and dropped when she looked at the king. He was his mother’s son. Most thought incest the cause for his madness, but Sansa knew better. The boy might have had a chance if a Baratheon had taken him from his mother’s clutches. Instead, his insane tendencies had been all but encouraged. She genuinely wondered what Tywin Lannister thought he could do with him. They would all be very lucky if the mad king didn’t start a war before lunch.

Joffrey’s face was legitimately purple. His wormy lips were twitching. His body was perched on the end of his throne as if he would leap down and kill them both. He would not. It was Littlefinger that truly scared her.

She was aware that he was a peculiar man. He spoke of her mother too often, made too many odd comments about their likeness. Once he had boasted that Sansa could have been his daughter in a different life. His lips lingered when he whispered twisted lessons in her ear and his fingers brushed against her body when he could manage it. She suffered it all for a chance to survive. Littlefinger was peculiar, but he was familiar with every speck of dirt in the lion’s den.

This face, the gleam in his eye, as he looked behind Joffrey with Pycelle, was more than anger. It was something mad, something different from what she’d seen from Joff. Joff wanted power over everyone. She simply had the misfortune of being the daughter of his enemy. Littlefinger wanted her. He wanted her in all the ways he’d never had her mother. And now this Catelyn was stolen from him by a man born into the southern equivalent of the Starks.

Oberyn squeezed her fingers. She was not alone. Dorne was at her back. The crown could not afford a war with Dorne. Tywin would never allow Joffrey to start one and Littlefinger could do nothing so soon.

The tension in the room grew until it became a living thing that boiled against their skin. Then, like a petulant child, Joffrey whined, “Lady of Winterfell? Winterfell is already mine. There’s no need for you to prance around.”

Sansa’s mouth went dry with anticipation. Her husband, however, didn’t hesitate. He spoke the words that had frozen in her chest.

“So you admit to colluding with the Freys and Boltons to break the divine law of guest right and in doing so murder a hundred men during their liege lord’s wedding?”

“Of course not,” Tywin snapped, but the cunning old man wasn’t looking at the Red Viper. He was scrutinizing his wife in a new light. Sansa was no longer the meek damaged girl from two nights ago. Lannister arrogance would be their downfall. They paid no mind to anyone other than themselves for they believed no one else could be half as intelligent, ambitious, or beautiful. “You told me you didn’t know where she was.”

Oberyn pulled Sansa into his side, running his fingers down her waist. It simultaneously calmed and unnerved her. She never showed that part of her skin. She’d never had anyone touch it.

“I didn’t at the time. I soon after found her hiding behind a miniature of Baelor the Blessed not three halls from her rooms. There’s a hidden door nestled into the side. She was upset after yesterday’s incident-“

“Weak girl,” Joffrey spat. “Who could ever fear a wolf?”

“You,” Sansa said, staring into his bloodshot eyes. His rage gave him the look of a drunkard. Another wave of shame crashed over her. How had she ever thought him handsome? “You killed my direwolf because of what she could do to any that wished me harm.”

“LIES!” He was halfway off his throne. It took an impressive amount of control to stay seated, but his fear of physical confrontation was most unfortunately too powerful for him to do something stupid.

Oberyn tutted. “I think my wife’s back proves her statement. You have intended nothing but harm of every kind to her. Do you know of the man your father killed, Your Grace?”

The question was worded so beautifully. Jaime was the Kingslayer, but Robert had overthrown the Targaryen dynasty. If he were corrected, Oberyn could simply say he was referring to the Usurper. If he didn’t reply that he indeed meant Jaime Lannister. It was something he was reckless enough to say.

“Of course,” Joffrey scoffed with a sneer. “He killed the Mad King and-“

“What of your promise of betrothal to my son, girl?” Tywin boomed, cutting across his grandson.

“What of your promise of justice for my sister?” the Prince hissed.

“Oh, Father,“ Lord Tyrion drawled. He came to stand beside Sansa in a dark doublet. It hadn’t escaped her notice that he he’d forsworn Lannister red quite a while ago. “I daresay our betrothal was more of an insult than her elopement. To waste such a beauty on the likes of me is an insult to the gods themselves!”

Sansa was surprised to see him in attendance. She assumed he’d be avoiding his family, though it was possible he’d been forced to endure their presence because of her disappearance. Something he’d much rather be celebrating with a bottle of arbor red.

When the uneasy laughter had died down, Sansa looked down at the man that could have been her husband. She had the sudden urge to defend the Lannister, the man whose family had so much Stark blood on their hands. “The insult was not in your stature. You are the kindest and most intelligent man I’ve met and probably the bravest man in this room.”

“Brave?! The imp?!” Joffrey cried. “He’s half a man! He can’t be the bravest.”

“The Imp didn’t run during the Battle of Blackwater,” Sansa pointed out.

Joffrey pushed himself off the throne, a blade missing his wrist by an inch. Oberyn pushed Sansa behind him and pulled a knife out of seemingly nowhere. In the same moment, the spearmen behind her shifted forward. A few people discreetly snuck out through side doors. They would be punished later, lowered several rung on the ladder to power and riches.

Tywin caught the King by his tunic and shoved him back. It was an impressive feat for a man of the Hand’s age. The corralling Kingsguard faltered. Their dull minds couldn’t choose a course of action. Ser Barristan would not have hesitated for a moment. He would have had Lord Tywin on the floor in the blink of an eye and at be at Oberyn’s throat the next.

“I think it is time for you to retire for the day, Prince,” Lord Tyrion suggested weakly.

“A pity,” Oberyn ground out. “We had not said all we came to say.”

“I’m sure, but for the sake of the realm, please.“

Oberyn cast a long, lingering gaze at Tywin and spun on his heel, dragging Sansa along by the wrist.

———————

Oberyn took her to another small mansion on the other side of the city. It was much closer to the docks. The architecture and decor were much more plain but no less luxurious. Silently, he pulled her through the sitting room, a parlor, and finally into a bathhouse.

Maids were lighting candles and arranging a tray of food near the furthest edge. Upon their arrival, they bowed hastily and hurried away. The room was small and humid. Plants lined the walls, further emphasized by the fact that they were the first piece of decor she’d seen in the building. Oddly cut mirrors and the low ceiling exaggerated the sense of otherworldliness. The pool was square and sprinkled with rose petals. In the midday darkness, it could almost be one of the springs in Winterfell.

“I thought....” Her voice faltered. She was so completely overwhelmed.

He ran his thumb over her scarred wrist. Sansa stepped out of his reach, feeling guilty at his wince.

“I ordered this house prepared for the two of us last night. I wanted to get to know my wife in privacy. The household was to move in tomorrow, but with the way things went, they will be more secure here.”

Sansa nodded. “I understand.”

“They won’t be back until much later. The ladies are spending the day in the city.”

“Will they be safe?” She asked, looking everywhere but at her new husband.

“They are guarded well.”

“Good.”

A few beats passed while Sansa worked to calm herself.

“Would you join me, my lady?”

She took a shaky breath and nodded. Oberyn muttered a curse and gripped her shoulders. Her stomach did several flips as his eyes pierced hers.

“I do not expect anything from you. I will wait until you are ready. I only wanted to treat you to-“

“No.”

He stepped back immediately, ceasing all touch with her. She was suddenly cold.

“No! Not no! Not no to that, it’s.... I don’t want to take any chances. I don’t want to risk this. I want to share my bed with you.”

Then, before he could speak, she blurted, “Not now, please. I’m very tired. But a...a bath sounds wonderful.”

He chuckled. “We’ve had a long night.”

The only sound was the trickling water as the newlyweds studied one another. Oberyn’s gaze was far less calculating than Sansa’s. He made a slow perusal of her body, his eyes lingering on her curves. He closed the distance between them and tapped on the crystal at her throat.

“Do you know what this is?” He asked as he stared down at her.

“No,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She licked her lips. Their noses almost touched when his eyes dropped to follow the movement. She felt like a mouse in a trap.

“It is a type of kohl mined in Essos. It’s harmless enough until ingested in a large quantity.”

“How large?”

“Oh, say half of that pretty pendant crushed into powder and stirred into a jug of ale.”

Her lips rounded into silent oh. He grinned and spun her around without warning. She gasped, leaning into his grip to keep from falling.

“Easier said than done,” he went on, his breath warm on her neck. He traced the chain down the length of her spine, raising the gooseflesh along her arms. It took a considerable amount of effort to remember what he was talking about. “It has a bitter taste and darkens the drink, so the victim would need to be too drunk to truly taste the difference.”

He unclasped the necklace and sat it aside. His rough hands slowly continued tracing the curve of her waist, the tips of his fingers slipping underneath the silk each time they reached her hips.

“That crystal is best delivered over time with a steady dose. With enough luck or an incompetent maester, it could be mistaken for a sickness.”

He played with the dress tied, teasing her and tripling the number of butterflies in her stomach. Though, she figured, I am nearly naked in this dress anyway. Oberyn’s lips pressed against her right shoulder. Another one, then another, until he was making a languid trail to her neck. She sighed contentedly, nearly out of her senses with lust, and subconsciously tilted her neck to him. His breath tickled at the sensitive skin there. She shivered, the dress suddenly tight against her breasts. He kissed her just below the ear, his tongue darting out to taste her. Her back arched into him.

He laughed as he squeezed her hips. He set a quick peck on her flushed cheek once, twice, and then lightly pushed her away. Sansa turned to see what he was doing. She gulped when she saw that he was unbuttoning his tunic.

“Undress yourself, Sansa Stark. I will not be able to keep my hands off you if I do it myself.”

She didn’t see how being naked together in the pool would help either, but didn’t mention it. She was, after all, a maiden and he was the Red Viper. She untied the dress and slipped into the pool. It was almost hot, though nowhere near as warm as Winterfell’s springs were. It was surprisingly deep, covering her to the waist. She waded in and skunk down onto the curved bench of the other side.

She almost fell asleep until the water splashed and Oberyn was beside her. He leaned his head back next to hers. He was quite striking. He wasn’t classically beautiful. His nose had a strong curve and his brows were a bit angry, but he was still handsome. It was his unbridled that drew her in.

“Will I not be Sansa Martell?”

The apple of his throat moved as he spoke. “No. I am only a second son and you are the last of an ancient house. I would not disrespect such history. In truth, my brother is more worthy of you.”

“That’s foolish. I’m not worthy of either of you.”

His eyes opened. If he was surprised to find her watching him, he didn’t tease her for it.

“I’m the daughter of a ruined house,” she explained gently, trying to convey that she didn’t say it for pity. She was simply stating the facts. “I am heir to an arid kingdom on the cusp of winter and in the ruins of war. I have no money, lands, or men. It is only my name and my womb that I can offer.”

“Oh, I think you can offer much more than that.”

She watched the water ripple as she drew shapes with her hands as she spoke. “I don’t know what I’m capable of. I’m a good dancer and I can embroider better than most experts. I don’t know what I can do that is useful. I can’t fight or make poisons.”

“I can teach you those if you wish,” he shrugged. “But you have skills of your own that can’t be taught. You put on a good act. You watch and learn. It may sound simple, but you know what to look and listen for.”

“Littlefinger taught me that. You should be more wary of him.”

Oberyn raised a brow. “Are you afraid he might poison me?”

“I’m serious. Did you see his face today?”

He frowned. “No.”

“Precisely! That’s how he would have it. He was nobody. The son of a foreign sellsword that now controls the second mad king. He’s the most dangerous man in the city. The realm, maybe. He trades flesh and secrets as a living. He....he was infatuated with my mother. I...endured his attentions to learn. Now-“

His eyes became steel. “His attentions.”

“Nothing untoward. Nothing concrete.”

“You do not want them. They are untoward.”

“You’re missing the point. He is not happy. His prize was stolen from him by his betters, yet again, this time another handsome warrior and a prince, no less. Just swear to me you won’t underestimate him, please.”

Oberyn sighed and caressed her cheek. “I swear I will try not to.”

“It’s not a coincidence that he’s master of coin. He must own half the continent by now.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned back to stare at the ceiling. “Ugh. Can we not spend our wedding night speaking of Littlefinger?”

“Fine. What about cannibalism? We never got it into the vows.”

He laughed. It was a beautiful sound that echoed off the walls and filled her belly with warmth.

“Have you heard of the Rat Cook?” She asked.

“I can’t say that I have.”

“It’s a story every child in the North knows. There is a castle on the Wall called the Nightfort. Have you seen the Wall?”

He frowned. “I have seen many things but nothing of the North. It has been a regret of mine even before I got my mark.”

“I’ve only seen it once. Father took Jon, Robb and I together when we were just children. It’s extraordinary. It’s easy to forget magic isn’t a fable until you see something like the Wall. The Nightfort is one of the oldest castles on the Wall. It’s a cursed place named after the Night King, which is another story. Have you heard that one?”

“No, I have not.”

“I’ll tell it to you sometime. So, an Andal king and his son visited the Nightfort. During his visit, the king slighted the cook. The wrong changes with each telling. At dinner, the cook served a delicious pie. They say the king loved it so much he ate a second slice. When he offered his compliments, the cook laughed and laughed and laughed. Confused, the king asked what was so amusing. Do you know what the cook said?”

Oberyn shook his head. It reminded her of Bran and Rickon riveted by Old Nan.

“He said that the prince was in the pie. The cook had killed the prince and put him in the pie. The gods were furious. They cursed him and turned him into a massive white rat that can only eat his young.”

“Seven hells! You tell this to your children?”

She grinned. “Yes. It has a lesson. The gods weren’t angered because of the pie. They were angry because he’d slain a guest under his roof. It’s a tale of guest rights.”

Oberyn shook his head sadly. “I’m surprised the North hasn’t made pies of the Freys yet.”

“I can bake if you can kill.”

He gave her a savage grin. “I’ve honestly never heard anything sexier.”

Heat flared in her cheeks. She knew she must be blushing as red as her hair. His laugh confirmed it.

“You blush so easily. It is absolutely adorable.”

Sansa blushed even harder as he reached for her. She’d almost forgotten she was naked in the bath with her new husband. Her nerves were unwarranted. He only gave her another chaste kiss on the cheek before he passed her a cloth. After she scrubbed the powder and paints from her face, Oberyn insisted on washing her hair.

“My sister and I were very close,” he explained as he began unpinning the thick braid. “We were inseparable. It led to me becoming a handmaiden of sorts.”

The water made tantalizing trails down his muscled chest. She admired how golden his skin was in the candlelight and the way the muscles moved under it when they worked on another pin. All of this was done discreetly, or so she thought. He winked just before he spun behind her.

“I am a father to a thousand daughters. I am well versed in caring for a woman’s hair.”

“Were you at their birth?”

“Only the youngest, the ones with Ellaria,” he said as he began untwining the hair. The urge to scratch at her poor scalp was overwhelming. “Why do you ask?”

“I think the North and Dorne are more similar than either of us know. Our relations are strained by distance but I think we might have been friends given the opportunity.”

“That distance is probably the reason we would have been friends. Hard lands breed hard people. But what does this have to do with childbirth?”

“Father was there for most of ours. Mother was mortified to have him in the room, but he refused to leave. He said it was the northern way. She was grateful for it in the end. It’s different in the South as I’m sure you know.”

Oberyn massaged the roots of her hair. Her traitorous body did nothing to hide its pleasure. She was sure if she turned around there would be a smirk on his face.

“Robert went on a hunt when Cersei‘s time came,” Sansa remembered aloud. “She didn’t mind. It made it easier for Jaime to be with her. When they told him to leave, he asked how they thought to keep him out.”

Oberyn stilled. He spun her around, his face suddenly serious. “How do you know this? Did she tell you?”

“Yes. It was part of the maiden’s talk she gave me.”

“I can’t imagine what all that entailed.”

“It wasn’t too awful. She told me that I might not love the king, but I would love our children. Blackwater though.... I think you might have laughed at them all.”

“I probably would,” he conceded. Then grimly, he said, “You will have to tell Doran everything that they have told you, everything you have heard.”

She nodded. “When will we leave?”

“As soon as the bedding begins.”

“Ours? Or theirs?”

Oberyn’s gaze grew dark. She didn’t understand why he would be so angry at the jest. Perhaps he didn’t like to think of it as a laughing matter. Before she could apologize, he hoisted her onto the side of the pool. The cool air kissed her skin, but she felt only heat as his eyes consumed her. Propriety demanded that she cover herself, yet the rebellious wolf inside her would have none of it. She wanted to surprise him, to own him.

“Even half starved you are beautiful beyond compare. I’ll want to bury you in the sand when you blossom.”

“I doubt that.”

“Oh?”

“You’re far too vain to hide me away,” she teased.

“You wound me.”

And then she was back in the water and his arms.

The storm from earlier that had died down in nerves and uncertainty raged anew. Sansa pressed her lips against his. He froze, only for half a beat, and then his fingers dug into her hips and his mouth devoured hers. When he coaxed her lips open, she twisted her hands in his short hair, pulling him closer. His tongue brushed against hers. Every hair on her body rose to attention. Her soft chest melted into his hard one and he groaned into her mouth. Only the arm curled around her waist kept her upright.

Oberyn pulled away from her with one last nip.

“You taste like oranges,” she said as she licked her lips. Her voice was almost unrecognizable.

“For fuck’s sake, I’m trying to control myself! No! Don’t say it. Whatever is on that delicious tongue of yours, don’t fucking say it. Just lie back and let me wash your hair.”

Sansa, ever the obedient wife, did as she was told. The air still crackled with their lust. It was a room full of fumes that would light with the strike of a match. His fingers massaging into her scalp and combing the oil through the lengths of her hair only made things worse. Warmth pooled between her thighs with each shift of muscle under his skin. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, only one frighteningly new to her.

Abruptly, she heard herself telling the story of the Night’s King. It was not a tale that inspired lust. When it was over, Oberyn peered down at her with a curious expression.

“I want to go to this Nightfort.”

“What?!”

“Most legends have a kernel of truth. There’s only one way to unravel it. Will you join me?”

“If I don’t, every Stark in the crypts will awake to have my hide.”

“I would like to see them too, if it is not forbidden.”

Sansa mulled it over. It didn’t seem wrong to have him there, but it didn’t feel right either. “The godswood first. Did you know there are hot pools there?”

He climbed the bench and stood naked and dripping on the stone floor. Sansa looked away as he reached for a towel.

“No, though I suppose I should have if I knew the castle was built on hot springs. I’m dry now, little virgin.”

Dry he may have been, but he was still as naked as his name day. His body was lithe and lean and hard. And oddly hairless. Most Northern men had more hair on their chests and beards than their heads. It must have been cumbersome in the heat of Dorne. Any thought of cultural differences was swept aside when her eyes landed on his manhood, tall and proud against his flat stomach. She gulped and looked away, frightened and angry and strangely excited. There was no reason for it to make her giddy with anticipation. It wasn’t exactly the prettiest feature of his body.

Apparently, her mortification was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. An eternity passed before he held out his hand for her. She took it grudgingly and wrapped a towel around herself when she’d climbed out.

“Red Viper indeed,” she muttered, wringing the water out of her hair. This sent him into another wave of laughter. It took her a moment, but when she realized what she’d said, she began furiously protesting. It made him laugh even harder.

Finally, after he wiped tears from his eyes, he kissed her gently on the forehead.

“Come, let’s get you to bed.”

Sansa allowed her husband to pull her through the bathhouse. He still hadn’t put on a towel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never written any kind of smut, so I thought I’d test the waters with something light like this. How did I do? Any pointers?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Short chapter, but i’ve never written smut before. I wanted to make sure it was okay before I continued. Please let me know what you thought of it so I can improve :)

A large canopy bed dressed in the same creamy white as the walls took up most of the room. It was a sight that inspired tears of both exhaustion and nerves. It was all very dark. Only little slivers of sunlight seeped in through the shutters. Oberyn slipped on a pair of loose trousers that hung distractingly low on his hips. The cut of muscle on his hip made her heart beat at a worrying pace.

“Here. You can wear my small clothes and shirt to bed,” he said, setting a stack of light garments on the thick blanket. It was odd to go to bed so early, even with the chaos of the past two days.

“Will I need them?”

It took him a moment to understand why she would not need clothes.

“Sansa,” he said wearily. He massaged his eyes as he spoke. “I will not make you do this now. Or anytime soon.”

“But I want to! I won’t give them any reason to separate us. They’ll have me examined before the week’s out. Pycelle will take any chance to get his hands on a lady.”

“Has he touched you?”

Sansa laughed bitterly. “He’s touched every girl he could without suspicion. Even the queen complains.”

His lips twisted in revulsion. “Disgusting old fool. Determining a woman’s soul by a piece of skin between her legs! Preposterous! Ridiculous. In Dorne, we encourage girls to explore their sexuality before marriage. In Lys they worship a goddess of love and revere prostitutes.”

“Lady Mormont of Bear Island has never married and she has many daughters,” Sansa remembered.

Oberyn plopped onto the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched. “I would like to meet this Lady Mormont. She and I will share commiserations on parenting so many daughters.”

His faux misery quickly deteriorated into true anxiety. He ran a hand over his short hair, the muscles in his arms bulging at the movement. Sansa bit her cheek. The small pain grounded her from the pink clouds she’d started to dream of.

“I am not....” he sighed, then muttered a curse before his dark eyes seared into hers. “I am a passionate man, wife. Tywin Lannister says that I have always been half-mad. I will not be able to control myself if I bed you. I cannot suppress what you are not ready for. I cannot lay with you, Sansa, not yet but there are other ways to lose your maidenhead. It’s just a piece of skin after all.”

Sansa gulped. Just a piece of skin to be removed?! However would he remove it?!

“It needn’t be painful, only uncomfortable.”

A sudden desire for her mother came so strong that bile rose in her throat. Oberyn beckoned her forward with a sad nod, as if he somehow knew what she was thinking. She complied, her damp feet cold on the dark stone. It was a bit of a shock when he ushered her onto his lap, wet hair and damp towel and all. One hand played with the ends of her hair while the other traced a pattern on her knee. An emotion rose in her, so foreign that it took a moment for her understand what it is. She hadn’t felt safe in years. For the day, at least, she was safe. No Lannisters would come within five hundred feet of the plaster walls.

She pressed her lips to his cheek, trying to convey her thanks in the kiss. He responded with his own series of kisses; one to her hair, her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. It had been so long since she’d had any conversation, let alone any affection. To be touched with something other than malice or hunger was unimaginable.That luxury was unbecoming of a traitor.

Sansa was so content, so fantastically unaware of the world, that she let out a yelp when he flipped her over. With featherlight brushes of his lips, he kissed every inch of her pale skin until he reached the towel. She arched her back, silently begging for him to continue. He unwrapped the cloth as if she were a long awaited gift. Bare and defenseless, she couldn’t fight off her hateful thoughts. She was too thin, too scarred, too pale, too- oh.

His thumb traced the underside of her breast as his fingers dug into her back. His hands were so big! She knew, of course, how large a man’s hands were. She never thought of how they would feel wrapped around her body in a different way. In a way that turned her heart into a hummingbird and warmed her belly.

He kissed her neck, licking up some of the droplets still on her skin. Everywhere his tongue touched turned to fire. Something between a gasp and a moan escaped her as his head reached her breasts. She never knew a man could kiss her there too. She never knew it could feel this way. His tongue swirled, his teeth biting gently on her nipple while he teased the other. Heat pooled between her thighs.

It wasn’t an entirely new sensation. She’d been aroused before, but she’d never had the opportunity to act on it. While other girls giggled about kissing knights, she tried to avoid them altogether. There was no one to sneak away with for the night. No one who wanted her, no one she wanted. Once, she’d wanted a very big, very ugly man, but he had left to make a new life for himself.

Any thought of another man, any thought at all, was scorched away. Oberyn had a hand between her legs, his fingers rubbing at a bundle of nerves. A thousand little lightening storms raged beneath her skin. His chest touched hers as he rubbed his nose down her her neck. The friction was almost painful to her nipples. The lust was almost overwhelming. So many sensations, so much intensity.

Something built from where touched her. It was something slow and steady. When his thumb traced the length of her folds, it intensified. Not faster, but more. The word was a breathy cry.

“More please,” she panted.

Oberyn chuckled. It echoed through her own chest, tickled her throat where had been kissing her ear. She didn’t seem to know what to do with her legs. They kept opening and closing with each breath, like they were unsure what to do with this new sensation.

Something warm slipped inside her. Just a little. She gasped, her back arcing off the bed. She opened her eyes to find Oberyn smiling down at her. His finger slid deeper within. It was a strange, pleasurable feeling. He rubbed at something there, something inside her, then slipped another finger in. She was so full it was almost uncomfortable. Both of them her, leaving her aching and empty. Her hips bucked as if trying to keep him there.

Without breaking his intense glare, he put his hands in his mouth and sucked. She was entranced. The world could have ended and she wouldn’t have known that she died. Something primal overcame her. She was no longer a broken girl, but simply a woman in bed with a man.

Her lover grew still, his eyes darkening at whatever he saw in her own. His own animal instincts were battling within him. Silently, roughly, with more force than he’d shown thus far, he began moving his fingers in and out while his thumb rubbed there.

The sounds were ungodly. The noise her body made, the noise her mouth made. She had one foot in pain and the other in pleasure and she never wanted to move.

The desire was reaching a precipice. She was afraid to find what was on the other side. But when her husband stopped rubbing and tugged hard at that bundle of nerves, delirium reigned. A warm, soothing force flooded her body. It went all the way from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. Her muscles tensed and then relaxed, turning her into a pool of liquid.

Oberyn pulled back and she shivered at the loss of contact. He cleaned his hands with a towel before he wiped between her thighs. She should have been embarrassed but couldn’t quite bring herself to care about anything.

Wordlessly, his strong hands maneuvered her head to the pillow and the blanket over her naked body. He climbed in beside her, curling his arm around her waist. Drowsiness was as thick as honey just then.

“Please forgive me,” he murmured into the darkness. His breath tickled her neck.

“Whatever for?” she asked. Her words were hardly more than a siege.

“I should have been gentle.”

Sansa tried to turn to look at him, but he held her still. Instead, she took his calloused hand in both of hers and cradled it to her chest. “I am a wolf, Prince of Dorne. We do not break easily.”

“Unbowed, unbent, unbroken.”


End file.
